When the running stops and healing starts
+ writing prompt
I don't know how to write about war, but I can write about what I know. I can write about truth, spoken in the message of words and sincere transmission of creativity.
I don't know how to write about war, and I do not pretend to know the history and details of the Middle East, but I know that I am curious about the past and pieces of my life.
I don't know how to write about war, and I admit I have not paid attention, watched the news, or sought out information as I, too, have been battling a fight of my inner terrain. Adding more turmoil and feeding fear to an already uncertain, worried, worn-out mind and body would not be a supportive practice of soothing self-care and in service to those I hold dear.
I don't know how to write about war, but I know how to light candles, chant peace mantras, pray that all beings be free from suffering, sit in silence, and offer kindness and compassion to self and others.
I don't know how to write about war, but I can tell you the side effects of hate, an urgent world, an obscured mind, and heart.
I don't know how to write about war, but I know playing defense and battling between opinions, beliefs, and right or wrong narratives can diminish a relationship and cultivate a build-up of pain, resentment, and suffering, sustaining a withdrawal of genuine listening, understanding, and intimacy.
I don’t know how to write about war, but I do know emotions left unspoken create a barricade of connection and little room for affection to invade.
I don't know how to write about war, but I know the discomfort of the smoldering wreckage of wounds and confusion when the walls come crashing down.
I don't know how to write about war, but I do know how to sit on the cool grass on a sunny Sunday afternoon at the park, sharing a meal with my husband of thick avocado toast on fresh, crisp sourdough bread, sweet, creamy vanilla yogurt granola parfait, and strong espresso, exchanging language of ease, clarity, and insight.
I don't know how to write about war, but I can ask my husband what he knows, as history and current events are what he reads and entertains. I can witness as he accounts the past and recent reports with curiosity and presence.
I don't know how to write about war, but I know how to pay attention to the white butterfly that flew over my shoulder and landed loyally in my bag, offering a symbol of purity, innocence, and spirituality, signifying a significant shift and change, making way for a new way to emerge, and encouraging love to express more freely.
I don't know how to write about war, but I know how to land on the lawn of love. How to notice the sound of the ball striking the metal bat, the instant crowd cheering the players as they chase the bases, the flock of geese flying overhead, the little miss calico cat casually strolling around with her authority, and how in those slow and simple moments life felt sacred.
I don't know how to write about war, but I do know that when the running stops, and we face the dark, put the weapons down, bravely open our fragile hearts, and make friends with memories, the difficulties dissolve with time, space, grace, and effort, and the healing starts.
I don't know how to write about war, but I can tell you the hope and expansiveness I touched — enjoying the company of a leisurely Sunday, rekindling a relationship, and restoring love.
Writing Prompt
I don’t know how to write about war